Footsteps paved a path. A path up the mountain. The sun was lingering in the sky – it was late afternoon and it was making its decent. As always the orange trees added luster to the picture; the orange dots matching the color of the sun. It was magic. This landscape so alive, yet so dry at times. The rounded mountains rolling in the horizon, adding softness, adding charm. It was the perfect picture of the French countryside: dark browns and greens mingled up with color. To her it was beauty.

Her heart was there. In that image. Somewhere. She could recall almost everything. The stage. The people. The moonlight. She hadn’t known that summer would change her life forever, but it did. How young she had been. It was an interesting picture. Her, back then. She was essentially the same, yet not at all.

She hadn’t thought of it for so long that the memories came to her almost as a shock. The fact that she could remember so much. It was a path she hadn’t walked for a very long time, but as often is the case: once you start walking you recognize the path, you know where the turns are and one thing reminds you of another.

Looking back she smiled. It was a beautiful story after all. Maybe the ending hadn’t been great, but then the new beginning had been marvelous. Where one journey ends another starts. And she was happy now. For real. And the journey continued to make funny twists and turns…never seizing to fascinate the people on it.